


this slumber that creeps to me

by wenandwhere



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Consensual Somnophilia, Nonbinary Character, Other, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 15:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21914653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wenandwhere/pseuds/wenandwhere
Summary: vampire barista pat + insomniac brian meet-cute/"sleep-cute"
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 11
Kudos: 59
Collections: Polygolidays Gift Exchange 2019!





	this slumber that creeps to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [localcrypted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/localcrypted/gifts).

> Happy Polygolidays from [redacted] to you (Em)!

Awake.  
“That’s nice,” Brian croons dozily, smiling as Pat runs his broad hand soft and warm down their side. 

Their lamp is on but dim, hardly visible behind their closed eyes. Somehow Brian’s bed feels so much more welcoming just with the added weight of Pat dipping the mattress down beside them. 

“How, uh… when do you want me to—to um,” Pat sighs and starts over. “When do you want to sleep?”

“God, like, _yesterday_,” they laugh. “Any time’s fine. We’ve reached cruising altitude and you are free to move about the cabin.”

They feel Pat’s smile against their forehead. “Are you gonna make some joke about the mile high club?” 

The last thing Brian’s absolutely certain they say out loud is, “Have a good flight.”

Stage 1.  
The first time Brian goes to Midnight Mocha, it’s with Laura on a windy October evening when they’re both sick and desperately need to deal with their runny noses. 

They wipe their faces surreptitiously on the scratchy brown napkins near the door before stepping in line, trading congested commentary about how neither one has actually been here yet but it’s nice to know that there’s a 24-hour coffee shop so close to their new home. New York sure is somethin’. 

The barista who takes their order has one of those over-the-mouth black fabric masks like some people wear when they’re sick and Brian privately wonders whether it’s because he’s also sick or because so many of his customers are.

Maybe he just thinks it looks cool. Enhances the bad boy turned coffee artisan vibe he’s giving off with his long dark hair and his soft flannel shirt and his tall nonchalant slouch. If that’s the case, it’s working. 

Naturally, Brian does his best to look suave walking away and then they go and `trip`—

Awake.  
—Brian lurches and Pat recoils back to the edge of the bed and is already stammering out apologies when Brian has to interrupt with a slurred, “No, no, I was asleep. Just a dream. You’re good.”

The concerned creases in Pat’s brow smooth out slowly and he wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand before clarifying, “So nothing bad?”

“Nah,” Brian adds, suddenly breathless at the sight of him. “Just tripped in a dream. Can we keep going?”

“Say no more,” Pat says with a mischievous curl of his lips as he settles back down between Brian’s legs.

Stage 1.  
It’s cold as hell. Brian was laying warm and cozy in their bed, like, thirty minutes ago and now they’re just feeling real dumb about this decision.

In addition to the rest of that it’s also _late_ as hell to be drinking coffee, but Brian needs to at least wake up enough to focus on something and not keep falling into half-asleep anxiety spirals. Plus, if they stay up long enough, falling asleep tomorrow will be easier.

They hadn’t noticed it a couple weeks ago, with Laura, but Midnight Mocha has a fireplace. Brian immediately imagines endless future nights when they could end up here to write or read or compose in any number of cozy sweaters.

The barista’s the same guy from before, but he’s the only one working this time. They probably don’t get too busy on this shift. Brian probably wouldn’t even recognize him if he wasn’t wearing the same black face mask.

The mystery remains: germophobe, sick, or badass?

Perhaps it’s just the muffle of the mask, but something sounds a little unusual in his voice when he takes their order. Maybe an odd cocktail of accents, Brian reasons.

There are only a handful of other customers scattered around the room. One of the benefits of the hour is that everyone is mercifully absorbed in their own quiet tasks. Brian takes their small mocha—“with whipped cream, please”— to one of the plush armchairs near the fire and settles in with his phone for some mindless sipping and scrolling.

The quiet music and crackling fire and small sounds of people living quietly create a hypnotic cocktail of white noise. At some point there’s a crescendo of soft scattering punctuated by a subdued-yet-passionate, “_fuck_ `calm down, there`.” Brian `spasms in surprise and` glances over curiously every few moments and eventually sees the barista muttering and crouching down in front of the counter to pick up the remaining spilled coffee beans.

It must be the warmth of the fireplace, but not long after they’ve finished their drink, they feel somehow more relaxed than when they came in. `Unwinding under a trail of slow kisses down their thighs.` Sleepy, even. Brian doesn’t know the science behind it, exactly. Warm drink plus warm room is greater-than-or-equal-to a mocha’s worth of caffeine? 

They don’t want to waste time examining this serendipitous turn of events when it could be much better spent somehow falling asleep before sunrise.

Stage 2.  
Brian stops in Midnight Mocha earlier than their usual with Laura once again. It’s dark already from the time change, and a bunch of other stores already put up Christmas lights, and Brian forgot their gloves again.

They’re surprised to see Pat on this side of the counter waiting for a drink. They’ve had a few chats now, and Brian never got the impression that he was the type to stop by his workplace as a customer.

As soon as they’ve shuffled a couple places forward in line Brian realizes it’s definitely not Pat leaned up against the counter. Even as it dawns on them that they don’t exactly know what the bottom half of Pat’s face looks like, they’ve seen him enough to know if that he wouldn’t look like this in a skirt and leggings. 

But still, something about her looks familiar.

Pat appears behind the counter a moment later and hands a to-go cup off to the woman, who says something to make him laugh and then leaves.

This time of day is much busier than the late night trickle of people working odd hours drifting in silently. There’s not time for any real conversation, but they can _hear_ Laura’s lifted brow when Pat says, “Hey Brian, what’ll it be?”

They cough out an order and start formulating the most casual way to explain this absolutely normal acquaintanceship with Laura as soon as they’re back out in the cold.

It’s just some insomnia, nothing new. Moving and money and being alive… all of that’s stressful. And the coffee shop is so _relaxing_. And sometimes there’s no one else around so you and the barista have a conversation. It happens!

And sometimes he looks so tired to you want to tell him that he could nap if he wants to, that you’ll keep an eye out for him and wake him up if someone comes in—

And sometimes you manage to make a joke about that but he thinks it’s clever and he smiles and his eyes crinkle and you look at his name tag and the name finally sticks in your head—

And sometimes you look forward to coming back the next night and greeting him by name—

`Brian shivers under the tentative tease of grazing fingertips, Pat’s name on their breath.`

Well, Laura certainly doesn’t need to know all of that.

Z Z Z  


“Hey Pat. Can I get a latte?”

Whatever kind of reaction Brian was expecting, it certainly wasn’t a cringe and barely concealed groan.

Perhaps it’s an involved process and Pat’s just too tired for it. He always looks pretty beat. Perhaps Brian’s been in enough to be a Regular now—to get these responses without fear of a retaliatory yelp review.

`Brian tries to speak around the slow intrusion of fingers in their mouth but finds their tongue uncooperative.`

“I’m gonna be honest with you, kid,” Pat says, “if you’re looking for a nice instagram picture I am not your guy.”

The candor shocks a loud laugh from Brian `and the taste of skin recedes slightly`. “I thought latte art was day one of barista school?”

“Yeah, well, they added it to the curriculum after I graduated,” Pat says. It’s hard to tell for sure without seeing his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the drink request. 

“I solemnly swear not to photograph my drink.” Brian puts a hand over their heart.

“Fine. Lighting’s bad for it here anyway.” Pat sighs visibly, really throws his whole body into the act, then gets to work.

There are a few people Brian recognizes now. They don’t usually linger too often. Some take their time and read, some stare off into the middle distance and leave immediately after finishing their drink, and most stumble in still half-asleep and grab a large black coffee to go. There seems to a good mix of no-nonsense business folks pulling late hours and service industry employees whose internal clocks are hopelessly wrecked.

And then there's Brian, seemingly locked in an endless cycle of restless insomnia that carries them here, then settles and ebbs away and allows them to return home and sleep. They don't come here _every_ night—sometimes they muscle through the insomnia or have nights of reprieve—but something about Midnight Mocha soothes their racing thoughts. 

Something beyond Pat’s easygoing charm and cute laugh.

Pat clears his throat and shakes Brian from their thoughts before setting down a cup and muttering something, looking askance. The visible half of his face is red.

Brian says a reflexive, "Thank you,” before Pat scurries away and then immediately has to stifle further reaction. 

Pat was... not misrepresenting his skills out of humility. They takes a sip quickly to obscure Pat’s valiant attempt at pouring a leaf, scalding their tongue in the process.

`They swirl their tongue around Pat’s fingers seeking more untasted skin, trying to take in more of him when he swears and pulls them out, dripping Brian’s own spit cold on their chest.`

"It's good,” they call over to Pat, who rolls his eyes but nods in acknowledgement. It _is_ good, is the thing. Everything they've had here is good. 

Actually, they find the fact that Pat's not great with latte art endearing.

Z Z Z

One evening, the woman who looks like Pat comes in while Brian is already in line. Pat has no face mask on today, and Brian has been struggling with trying not to stare too obviously at the demystified lower half of his face. 

She bypasses the line and passes a bag to him over the counter and receives a tight-lipped nod from Pat before he disappears into the back. She lingers.

When Brian reaches the counter, Pat's back with a mask on once more. He's not making eye contact, which makes it all the more difficult not to focus entirely upon the cartoonish pink blush lines and w-shaped smile on the white mask. 

The woman howls with shameless laughter and Pat scowls hard at her—at least, his eyes appear to be scowling.

"Damn it, Simone," Pat mutters just loud enough for her to hear.

Everything clicks into place for Brian, then—where they recognize the woman from. They startle and turn fully toward her, a little starstruck.

"It looks good on you," she says with an indefatigable smile. "Now you can tell people you're putting on your customer service face.”

"I can't believe you've done this.”

"Hey, I did you a favor! Go back to servicing your customers.”

"_Simone_," Pat groans through his blush and w-smile while she gives him a self-satisfied grin.

"Sorry, Brian," Pat says, and Brian's attention finally snaps back to him. “Meet Simone. Simone, Brian. What can I get for you today?”

"Um," Brian stalls, a bit `tongue-tied.` "Uh. Mocha. Please. And yeah, hi, I recognize you." They stick their hand out awkwardly, "I'm Brian David Gilbert.”

"Ooh, full name," Simone croons, "very fancy! Simone de Rochefort. You've seen my videos?” She leans in conspiratorially. “Or are you coming in here to read my dirty smut?”

They blush incriminatingly while waving their hands frantically to dismiss the idea. Thank God no new customers have come in. "The videos! I didn’t—you write? I like your videos.”

"Thanks," She says. She looks genuinely happy, finally satisfied with the extent to which she’s tormented them both. ”What do you do, Brian David Gilbert? Oh, hey, Pat's last name is Gill. That's cool.”

"Don't doxx me," Pat calls over the sound of steaming milk.

"Clerical work, currently," Brian says and scrunches their nose. "I haven't lived here long. I'm trying to get a job in video production or music production or something more creative than alphabetizing," they ramble.

She hums sympathetically. "It's a tough market. I've gotta run but we can chat sometime about video, if you like.”

"That's be great, thanks," Brian says and tries not to sound too painfully earnest. 

`They can speak now, though their mouth is full and their tongue can hardly budge under the full weight of Pat’s cock.`.

"Thank you," Pat says to her in all his blushing, w-smiled sincerity. She nods and says _of course_ and then she's out the door.

"I've never been more grateful for a fucking lull," Pat grumbles as he slouches over to lean on the counter. 

"Every grouchy thing you say is a lot funnier with that mask on, though," Brian says, then feels their face warm up after it slips out. 

"Yeah, she's probably right about it being a better customer service face," he relents. "Here's your drink.”

"How long have you known her?" 

"Years. Long enough that I got her to run an errand for me. A strap on my regular mask ripped this morning and I didn't have time to stitch it up.”

"Well, she sure got you a cute one.”

"Yeah, of course she would know where to get shit like this."

Z Z Z

The next night, Pat's ditched the new mask entirely and is just working bare-faced.

"What can I get you tonight," he mutters almost inaudibly.

"Can I just get a mocha?" Brian asks.

Then Pat mutters something that _is_ inaudible.

"What was that?”

"I said do you want whipped cream again," Pat says louder, more enunciated, baring the sharp points of two short fangs. 

Stage 3.  
Brian's jaw shuts with an audible _click_ and they nod silently and move too quickly to pull off forced-casual over to their usual seat near the fireplace. 

It's not that they haven't met a vampire before, there’ve been a handful in classes here and there. It's just usually something they know about before interacting and now they've got to take a moment to reframe what they know and make sure they haven’t said or done anything shitty already. 

The dramatic parallels are not lost on them.

"So's that why you never drink any coffee?" Brian quips, pushing their nerves aside when Pat brings their drink. 

`Pat’s mouth is hot and slow and thorough on their mouth and jaw and neck, easing their lingering tension while he grinds himself slowly against their side.`

Pat relaxes visibly, and tilts his head and rolls his eyes upward in an approximation of a shrug. "'S why I never drink _anything_," He clarifies in a quiet voice while looking around once more to check that no other customers are nearby. 

"How d'you mean? Do you just, like, live off of hemo-gummies? Or do you cook with it?” 

Pat shifts his weight from leg to leg a few times, glancing back toward the counter again, and then settles heavy into a seat across from Brian. "It sounds like bullshit, and I promise I'm not just trying to be trendy, but—I've got a blood intolerance.”

“_What_?" Brian barks out with an incredulous laugh, then immediately apologizes for what was probably a rude reaction. They sink deeper into their chair, compensating for their loud sound with their small posture.

"I know," Pat groans, head falling into his hands. "It sounds so fake, I thought the doctor was fucking with me when she told me.”

“That—What? I didn't even know that could happen!”

"Me neither!" Pat looks up, eyes wide, seemingly grateful for the empathy. "I'd been fine for years and then all of a sudden I keep getting an upset tummy and have to try a bunch of specialty shit.”

"What even are the alternatives?”

"_Expensive_. I was kind of cheaping out before, using low-percentage blood content stuff and supplementing with synthetics. I tried higher quality stuff, and different blood types, and it was actually worse.

“They make expensive specialty products where they hydrolyze the proteins in the blood but that's all done by private companies getting donor blood for pennies to the dollar and profiting off of it, so it's a shitty industry to perpetuate.”

Brian gives a soft, thoughtful `_huh_` and sits back to sip at their drink. They'd never really thought about anything like that. Never heard of it as an issue. None of the vampires they'd known had been close friends, just casual acquaintances. But all of those acquaintances _had_ looked a little less perpetually exhausted than Pat.

It’s easier to tell now, without the mask, how tired Pat looks. Sure, Brian was aware that Pat was pale and had dark circles under his eyes, but it’s really noticeable now and doubly so with the context of backstory.

"So you just... don't eat much?" Brian asks.

Pat shakes his head. "Hardly anything at all. I-," He stops, sighs, and retreats into himself literally and metaphorically before pushing himself up out of the chair again. "I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me. I'm getting by.”

It's not long after Brian's settled into passing their time trying to figure out how best to investigate alternative vampiric diets that they hears a tragically-too-familiar soft rain of coffee beans onto the tile floor—the harbinger of a less-soft, "God `_damn_` it.”

`”You’re so warm,” Pat says with the usual awe`.

This time, though, Brian walks over to where Pat is on his hands and knees behind the counter, muttering a running count as he picks up beans and puts them in a garbage bin. 

"Forty-three, fourty-four, forty-five," Pat says loud enough for Brian to hear, then pauses to allow an interruption.

"Can I help?" Brian asks, then interrupts Pat's inhale with, "I'll keep my own count so you can add them up.”

An almost uncomfortable amount of time passes before Pat nods, then goes back to counting under his breath. 

By the time the floor is cleaned, Brian's yawning and sleepy. They don't realize until after they’ve said a cheerful good night and gotten a few blocks down the road that they forgot to drop their cup in the bus tub, let alone finish it.

Z Z Z

The next night, Pat's got his black face mask back on. One of the straps has been reattached clumsily with yellow thread. He greets Brian same as always, doesn't outwardly judge them for ordering their coffee with a generous amount of cream and hazelnut syrup, and does nothing to suggest that the events of the night before had been anything out of the ordinary.

So it's a surprise when Pat sits down across from them again tonight and gets right down to it. 

"I became a psychic vampire," He says without preamble, like ripping off a bandaid.

"That's a thing?" Brian asks with a curious tilt of their head.

Pat laughs, seems to appreciate this reaction. “Yeah. It's not very efficient, and blood's legal and easy to come by now, so not a lot of people choose to learn do it. But. It's an option.”

Brian sips their coffee in quiet contemplation and settles on asking, "So is it like... if you decided to be vegan?”

Even though Pat answers with a snort, they can see his eyes crinkling up like he's holding back laughter. "Well, no. But yes! But no. It's... You have to learn it and that takes a lot of starving before your body starts to reach out for anything it can find. Then you learn to feel for that and how to take it consciously. And it fuckin' sucks in a whole different way because no one's consenting to _that_." 

His eyes are down on the table where he's drumming the pads of his fingers anxiously, likely waiting for the telling-off he seems to think he deserves.

`God, the things Pat does with his fingers…`

`"Oh,"` Brian says, "is that why I end up getting sleepy after I've been here?”

Pat winces hard and says, "Got it in one.”

"Pat, that's _great_ for me, though. Like, can I get you to come to my house and read me a bedtime story or something every night because I would _love_ to have an easier time falling asleep. Seriously, you can `suck my` energy out any time.”

Pat coughs and splutters, then begins to slowly, consciously untense himself. "I have rules for myself, though. That's why I started working _here_. If I'm just skimming the top off everyone's caffeination, it's probably not going to ruin anyone's day. They might not even notice." 

"Is that why you work the night shift?” Brian asks suddenly. “Is it a light sensitivity thing?”

He laughs at that, "Nah I'm just a nocturnal kinda guy. We get a lot of shitty business people at the start of my shift and I don't really mind taking a little something extra from them. They don't tip us well anyway.”

"Is _everyone_ here a vampire? Is Simone?”

"No, no. Just me. I only overlap with the mid crew for a few hours, I don't think any of them even know. Simone knows, but we've known each other a while.”

"What do you do on your days off?”

Pat shrugs. "Sleep a lot. I'm pretty run down most of the time. I don't want to take any more than I need to get by. I have some emergency hydrolyzed bullshit if I need it but I mostly just feel tired and hunker down and play games like any other person with a service industry job.”

"It's too bad we can't just trade off energy levels all the time. Like: okay I'm ready to sleep, take it away, Pat!”

"I mean, that's kind of what I've been doing? In a way? Sorry.”

He's deflating again in his seat so Brian scrambles to silence him. "No, no, it's good! You should do it _more_, honestly. I don't live too far away, I don't need much energy to get myself home and up to bed." Pat looks skeptical. "Seriously, you should hear my sister—Laura, I came in here with her a few times—she’d come here and beg you if she knew," They affect a slightly highter-pitched voice, "'Please just make them go to sleep, they're keeping me up all night deciding to start building a cat bungalow out of cardboard boxes!'" 

"They?" Pat asks, honing in on that one detail with surgical precision. His visible face betrays no reaction.

Brian's done this enough times to bring it up semi-unconsciously, to try to make themselves known relatively early in an acquaintanceship. "Yeah," they nod casually. Pat seems like a good egg but they can’t help but feel like a bundle of nerves until that suspicion is confirmed.

Pat gives an affirmative _hm_, smiles, and nods once in return. _Noted_.

It's a relief, to be trusted with a truth about someone and to find out that you can trust them in return. And it doesn't hurt that Pat's kind of a cutie. And it doesn't hurt that Brian is free to continue letting their vague, amorphous feelings veer crushward.

"So, Pat Gill," Brian asks, "After I'm done with this coffee, would you mind sending me to bed?”

Pat turns a fun shade of red.

REM.  
The memories of the next week of visits are fuzzy but this particular memory is sharp and clear, high-definition. Dream-familiar when Brian recalls it, except it _happened_.

`They gasp and breathe fast a moment, adjusting to the tentative awake-familiar press of Pat’s finger.`

Now, when Brian arrives, Pat pulls his face mask down and speaks to him without barriers. Laughs at his jokes with his pointed teeth out and all. He has _dimples_, Brian learns, and feels their heart cry out for all the times they missed seeing them because of the mask. 

Pat has freckles, also, and they're easy to see when he removes his glasses to rub sleepily at his eyes. The two of them commiserate about their respective sleep problems and joke in ways that feel daring about the way the solutions slot together so seamlessly. Brian dares to make a crack about a symbiotic relationship and hopes that it's dim enough in the cafe at night that their blush at even saying _relationship_ could be mistaken for a shadow of firelight.

Which is all to say, in some roundabout way, that Brian is surprised when they walk in mid-November and instead of asking for an order, Pat greets them with an anxious, "Hey, Brian. How about a latte today?”

And, well, if that's what Pat’s feeling, then who's Brian to deny him his chance? It was going to be one of those nights where they didn't know what they were going to order until they opened their mouth anyhow, the roulette wheel of options spinning up until the last second.

Brian almost didn't come in tonight. _Almost_ felt relaxed enough to drift off into sleep before a stray thought plucked them mercilessly off that path and dropped them into a familiar pit of anxiety. And it was easy, then, to roll themselves out of bed resolutely and shove on their coat and boots and jam their hands into their pockets while taking their mind off of their fears by honing in on the promise of Pat. It’s become routine.

He seems jittery tonight, moving nervously and scattering a small amount of coffee beans on the countertop—and stopping to count them and toss them out—and Brian wonders if the caffeinated energy he siphons off of people affects him in this way if he takes more than usual. If the feeling behind the energy is at all transmutable. If they felt sad and Pat took some of their energy, would it make Pat sad? Oh, no, that'd be like mind reading. Oh, _no_, what if Pat takes their energy and they’re feeling h-

`hot, too hot, and trembling now a bit, the way Pat curves his fingers, oh-`

"This is for you," Pat interrupts, having walked up being Brian while their thoughts spiraled. He sets the cup down gently on the coffee table in front of Brian so as not to further disturb the indiscernible muddy-swirled pattern on top.

“Thank you,” Brian says in polite confusion while looking up at Pat who's, oh, a little red-faced and biting his lip just a bit, the tip of one fang poking out prominently against the pink of his lip. 

"Just wanted to, uh, to try out- to show you that I practiced. Got better. So yeah," Pat breaks off into nervous laughter and nods to punctuate the end of his sentence before turning around and fleeing.

Well, no, that won't do. Anxiety recognize anxiety. Brian’s pretty sure they can read the mood here, and although there are definitely a few missing pieces to this puzzle hopefully they’ve got the right idea about the big picture.

Pat's cleaning down the side of the espresso maker with a heretofore unseen attention to detail until he jumps when Brian clears their throat.

"What time do you get off work?" Brian asks, smooth as they can manage. "I was thinking we could maybe grab a cup of coffee?”

They only get to see the full effect of Pat's smile for a moment before he dissolves into nervous laughter, hands pushing his hair back and trembling a little bit.

`Nervous, but getting less so, Pat’s free hand running shaky down Brian’s thigh.`

"Sure, sure. I uh. I know a place," Pat says when he regains his composure, hands still back in his hair.

"Great. It's a date, then," Brian says, and winks before turning on their heel and walking back to their seat with a bounce in their step.

`Even in sleep, Brian’s body moves in a natural rhythm, rocking down onto the palm of Pat’s hand until they’re gasping and jerking and cold and empty again but soothed by Pat’s rumbling reassurances.`

Pat reappears and flops onto the seat across from Brian shortly thereafter. "I, uh, get off work at five in the morning. So we should probably do something later than that.”

Brian nods in quick agreement. "Yeah, of course. I mean, if you want. I totally just asked you out at your job which is uh, whoops, super uncool. Sorry.”

“I mean, I made the same mistake,” Pat says and groans. "You're a fuckin' customer and I went and—I made a heart on the latte, or I tried, anyway—and didn't use my goddamn brain until the last second.”

"This is good. Okay. Now I know that I can rely on you to have marginally better judgment on socially acceptable practices.”

`It almost doesn’t pierce their senses at the edge of this dream, the aching slowness with which Pat pulls himself inside of them. Perhaps he’s still unsure if this is truly okay. Perhaps he’s savoring the moment. Regardless, he’s the one controlling the pace while Brian’s mind and body reshape around him and his plans.`

The conversation eases back into familiarity and it's closer to the end of Pat's shift than it is to the start when Brian, still too enthused to consider sleeping, says, "Pat I have to ask you something and I _need_ you to play along and not make fun of me.”

"I can't make any promises," Pat says with a toothy grin.

"How old are you?”

“31."

"And how long have you been 31?”

It only takes a moment for Pat's composure to crack and Brian's giggling right along with him while whining, "Come on! Play along!”

"Short enough that that is the only vampire movie anyone _ever_ quotes at me!”

“Seriously?"

"I mean there was one time where someone made a Lost Boys crack about me learning saxophone but. Yeah, not that long." After a pause, he asks, "Do I need to put on body glitter before our dates?”

And if Brian's indignant shriek is loud enough that the two other customers still in the cafe turn to look at them in judgment, well, that's not Brian's concern. 

Stage 1.  
Things are going pretty well. Brian's sleep issues are the most calm they've been since moving to New York. Partly from new relationship energy, partly from Pat giving them a bit of a push in the right direction when he needs it. 

The thing that throws all of that off-kilter isn't even that bad. In fact, it's inarguably _good_.  
Brian's just coming into Midnight Mocha to do some reading and hopefully hang out with Pat when the foot traffic dies down. They're surprised to see Simone chatting with him when they get there, but hurry over to join in the conversation.

"Brian!" She greets, pulling them into a quick hug and then readjusting her beret. "Big news: we're hiring another video producer! You think you might apply?”

"Woah!" Brian says, struggling to come up with a better response in a short span of time. "Really? I mean, yeah, of course, I will definitely check that out and... oh, jeez, is it posted yet?”

She laughs at them, not unkindly, and says, "Pretty sure if it's not up now it should be by tomorrow. If you want to ask me more about the job at some point you can ask Pat for my number.”

"Great! Thanks.”

"And if I see your name come up in conversation I'll vouch for you not being an asshole.”

"Your kindness knows no bounds," Pat snarks while Brian gives another sincere _thank you_.

Brian drifts over near the fireplace and sinks into it already lost in their own thoughts. It's not until Pat drops off a hazelnut coffee that they realize they didn't even remember to order anything.

They must really be spacing out tonight because when Pat comes over later, casting a quick glance around before kissing them chastely on the top of their head `but with unusual force`, he quietly asks, "Everything alright, Bri?”

"Yeah," Brian says quickly. "Just a little rattled. This is like... exactly the kind of job I want. The kind I _need_. I gotta... I've gotta start figuring out how I'm gonna go about this. Gotta clear my schedule.”

Pat nods, then lays a steadying hand on their shoulder. "If I can help with anything, just let me know.”

"Thanks," Brian says, feeling their nerves prickling everywhere.

Brian sighs and throws his head back and it `smacks into the back of the chair—`

Awake.  
The dull pain on the crown of Brian’s head pulls them up just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the sure weight of Pat’s warm hand come up to cover the top of their head. Enough to smile and nod, and then to wail unselfconsciously when Pat tries another cautious, deep thrust and—

Stage 1.  
Brian’s falling asleep in Pat’s arms, on his couch, with Pat’s hand petting their hair tenderly.

Stage 2.  
Now that they're dating, Brian's tried not to come to the cafe every single night Pat works. It's healthy to have space, especially early in a relationship. It's a little difficult, though, because of the ways in which transferring energy benefits them both. They've talked about it a lot already, how to keep this inherent transactional aspect of their relationship from becoming a sticking point.

Most of the time it doesn't matter. There've just been a few times at home when Brian's asked for something, hot and breathy and _specific_, and Pat's had to withdraw with a guilty wince and an admission that he can't manage _that_ right now. Maybe something less physically demanding. It’s fine. They make do with what they've got, and what they’ve got is good.

`”God, you feel so good.”`

But sometimes what they've got is Brian trying not to have a full-on panic attack in Midnight Mocha while scripting his cover letter video. 

"I have been working on these four lines for thirty minutes," they whine. “Pat, I'm gonna die. I'm not gonna finish it in time and I'll miss the application deadline and I’ll get depressed and stop working and I'll go broke and have to move back home and throw myself into the sea.”

"That's a lot of steps into the future," Pat says calmly en route to pick up a bus tub. "Wanna talk for a bit? Step away from that for a while and come back to it with fresh eyes?”

"I _can't!_ I'm going to lose steam, I won't want to open up the file and I'll be up all night again.”

"Again?" 

They groan. "I'm so tired.”

Pat hums in thought and then scans the room thoroughly. "You could just crash on one of the couches, you know. I could even drag one closer to the fire.”

"I _can't_, Pat," they whine. "I need to get this done!”

"Do you think if you do it now it's going to come out the way you want it?" 

It's sure difficult to argue when he says it so diplomatically, but they can’t help fixing Pat with a sulky glare.

"You gotta wake me up when the sun's up," Brian says, already gathering up their things.

"Of course. I have to leave sometime too." Pat smirks and a fang pops out. "Do you want me to move the couch first, or-“

"No, no, it's warm enough here. Just sit with me til I'm asleep?”

"I don't know if I can even get my ass on the couch before you're gone." Pat grins when Brian pouts at him. "Yeah, I'll sit for a few minutes. Wait, one sec.”

It's not as though Brian can sprawl out across the whole couch the way they would at home. `The way they are now.` Even if Midnight Mocha is empty right now, it's still an open business and Brian still has some sense of propriety. Thankfully, not enough of one to prevent them from curling comfortably on their arms until Pat stuffs a folded up scarf under their head and then drapes his jacket over Brian's body. It's sweet, and the thrill of it is almost enough to send them into a fit of helpless wiggles. 

Instead, they murmur a thanks and sink into the irresistible pull of slumber while Pat `runs his fingers through their hair.`

Stage 3.  
Somehow, it gets worse.

The worst part is that Brian _knows_ it's worse and knows that Pat will know it's worse and so they've been withdrawing somewhat. They still text, it's not as though visiting Midnight Mocha is the beginning and end of all of their contact, but it's a lot easier to conceal problems through text.

Just consciously stop responding at a certain point and no one will ever know you were awake, feverishly considering the many ways you can and have ruined everything.

Brian thought it would get better after they submitted their video application. It was out of their hands at that point. To be fair, it did get better for a bit. They slept and went on undistracted dates and felt like a person again.

And then, miraculously, they'd gotten the phone call to schedule an interview. 

Understandably, their composure unravelled.

`They wail Pat’s name—while he’s snapping his hips in harder than he’s been able to before—like they’re breaching the surface of the ocean and coming up for air before they sink down again into deep slumber`.

Each night, the same problem compounds: Brian needs to sleep but they are worried. They are worried because of how badly they need to sleep. The more they worry, the later it gets, the more desperately they need to sleep. 

It's a spiral that leaves them feeling confused and sluggish and disconnected and unaware that they're dressed and leaving the house until the bite of December wind hits them. 

And then? Might as well let momentum carry them on down the road.

And then? Well, turns out they've lost track of time and Pat's not even working tonight.

And then? They might as well grit their teeth and come up with a way to deal with this.

Z Z Z

Pat's at Brian's house again tonight. He was here yesterday too, for a good night of assisted sleep. It's never _enough_, though. Pat takes enough energy for Brian to drift off, but not enough for them to really sink into the long, deep sleep they need. It’s less an issue with helping Brian than it is an unwillingness to let himself have more than the bare minimum of what he needs to get by.

That's why he's here again today. To help. 

Because Brian’s interview is tomorrow.

The plan _makes sense_, that's what Brian has to keep telling themself. It's reasonable. Mutually beneficial. 

“This is going to sound weird,” Brian begins, which looks to be about as comforting to Pat as it sounds, “but I have a big favor to ask of you. It’s good for you too—I mean, I sure hope it is—but it’s absolutely mostly for me.”

“I can’t pretend to be you tomorrow,” Pat says, nerves guiding his hand through his hair. “they already know what you look like.”

A manic laugh escapes Brian’s mouth unbidden, and they `feel even less in control of their body.`

“Okay, just- please, just let me get it all out there. Lay my cards on the table. Tell you my plan. Then you can tell me why you think it’s bad, and then I’ll explain why you’re wrong.”

It definitely came out brattier than intended, but Pat’s smirking fondly and nodding at them to go ahead.

“So, okay. There’s two things I want—well, I need them both. One of them metaphorically but the other one definitely literally. And you can give me both at once which is, y’know, a lot of boyfriend points.”

Pat arches an eyebrow but remains silent.

Deep breath, then. Hope this doesn’t send him running. “I _need_ to sleep—“

Pat suppresses his laughter into an obnoxiously loud snort and has the decency to quiet up fast under Brian’s unamused stare.

“—and I _want_ you to fuck my brains out. That’s… yeah, that’s it. I should’ve prepared a better argument. I spent too long practicing for my job interview. I should’ve been working on this.”

Instead of leveling a judgmental grimace at Brian before calculating how long he has to hang around before politely dipping out, Pat’s got his eyes down and he’s looking regretful.

“So uh. Yeah,” Brian stutters out, not having anticipated this reaction. “You- you wanna tell me why it’s bad?”

“You know I can’t,” Pat says in a small voice.

“What?” It clicks, then, that Pat hadn’t made the connection on his own. “No! No, like. You can—if you want to, of course, if not it’s fine—you can um. Take what you need. To be able to. And probably even more than that because I really, _really_ need to sleep.”

It’s interesting, watching the face journey Pat takes. Still a little puzzled, then surprised, and then intrigued, excited, and finally stepping back and masking that excitement.

_Got ‘em_.

“I’ve never done that,” Pat says with measured caution.

“Oh, me neither.” They assure him. 

“Is that even okay? What if I hurt you?” He picks up steam as his worries overtake his interest. “What if I do something you don’t like and you keep trying to wake up to tell me but I keep sending you back to sleep?”

`”Yes, more!”`

“I… honestly hadn’t thought about any of that,” they admit. “But you know what my limits are. You know what I like. I trust you not to do anything I wouldn’t want on purpose. And like, if you do accidentally, I trust that it’s not you trying to be mean or sneaky.” They’ve almost sealed the deal, they can tell. They just need to deliver the final blow to get it locked down.

They let Pat think for a bit, let him wrestle with whatever moral dilemma he’s dealing with. All he comes up with in the end is, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

That’s all Brian needs. The guilt on Pat’s face saying _but I want to do this_. 

“I’m not gonna push you into anything you’re uncomfortable with, but if it’s something you want to try then it’s a good time or it. I don’t know if it makes any difference with what you want, but I _do_ like it rough sometimes, Pat Gill. If that’s where things end up.” They grin with a wicked look in their eye. “I want to be thinking about how deep I’m aching days from now.” 

It’s glorious, the way Pat’s face blooms red and his lips part slightly before he shuts them tight with a deep inhale and a strained _Mm-hm!_

And it’s not all that long before Brian’s drifting off and murmuring, “Have a good flight.”

REM.  
They’re in Midnight Mocha, but it’s empty. `There are too many chairs.` Tables that don’t exist.

Brian’s on their knees on an unreasonably wide couch, stifling their `whining breaths` against the cushions while `Pat moves them merciless and hard. He’s touching so much of Brian at once,` able to grip tight against their waist and hip at the same time with just one hand. And it’s maybe easier to think about that than—

`It’s perfect though, the frenzy and` strength Pat has tonight. Just this side of filthy, making quick use of Brian while he’s got them ass-up `on the floor`—they’re on the floor now, it doesn’t hurt their knees like it should—`and then he’s wrapped one arm around Brian’s waist and he’s`bent over kissing their back and shoulders and there’s the slick `hot slide of skin between them` even though Pat has his work shirt on.

`”Fuck, Brian, please,”` Pat says. 

And Brian thinks about how silly that is, that Pat’s asking for anything when he’s the one doing all the work and Brian’s just jelly-limbed and breathing hot and happy with every sharp thrust.

Pat flips them around at some point, they're on their back now but back on a couch—a different one, and now there are so many lightbulbs—and Brian is curled up so small folded under Pat. Pat, who’s `all around and on and in` and who’s moving fast and `stuttered` and who’s spilling nonsense from his lips that Brian can’t quite comprehend, the words changing every time they try to catch them.

Z Z Z

Brian’s in their room, but it’s `not their room.` The light streams in, warm and golden in a way it doesn’t living in the city. The ceiling’s high. Everything is comfortable.

Pat’s got his hands firm on their hips, still and panting over them and `catching his breath for a moment` while still hilted in Brian. He brushes the back of his hand across their cheek with a tenderness that leaves Brian squirming.

`Pat gasps,` then leans over to kiss Brian soft on their closed eyelid—`and it’s a strange feeling, their eye moving underneath that warmth`—before moving again. Slow, tender. `Hardly moving` save for his hands covering Brian thoroughly and working them over while they close their eyes and `focus on that bright zing of tension` and let the warmth of the room settle heavy all around them.

Time moves through honey here, Brian thinks, gold and slow and sweet and by the time they `think about how hot they are, their skin sweaty and burning,` they realize they’re `spasming in Pat’s hand, hips jerking up off the bed`, chasing and catching and tumbling over holding onto that sensation and Pat holding it close to them and then `they’re just holding Pat.`

Awake.  
It’s not unusual for Brian to sleep in late, since they usually get to bed at a proportionately late time. It is unsual, though, for them to feel so sated in every capacity.

They’re sprawled over Pat, who’s sprawled under them and breathing heavy and deep in a way that’s on the precipice of snoring. 

Some fleeting memories come back to Brian of warm towels and cups of water and they feel like dreams, but going by how not-gross they feel and knowing Pat they likely happened. It might take some time and wheedling details out of Pat to untangle dream from reality, but even the knotted confusion of it all is enough to send Brian into a compulsive fit of happy wiggles.

Pat groans and rolls over before he says, sleepy, “I was gonna make you breakfast.”

“You’re sweet,” Brian says, adoringly. “I’ll let the thought count this time around.”

“How d’you feel,” he sleeps-slurs.

“So far, great. Honestly I’ve been up for minutes so I don’t _know_, but I usually don’t wake up feeling like this.” 

“When’s the interview?”

Brian glances at their clock. “Few hours. You could still make me breakfast.”

Pat laughs and groans again, “Let’s go out. I’ll treat you.”

“You just don’t want to get up and make breakfast,” they accuse playfully.

“I just _do not_ want to get up and make breakfast.”

Brian rolls out of bed and feels surprisingly steady on their feet, stretching and smiling and getting excited about how good they feel. “Today feels like my lucky day,” they say, turning to Pat. “You’re a miracle worker.”

Pat scoffs and brushes off their compliment with a wave of his hand. “Nah, you’re just a horny genius.”

This habit of deflecting compliments must be broken. Brian flops back down on the bed, gazing adoringly at Pat with their faces too close together. “You’re a dream come true,” they say, emphasizing the cheesiness with a flutter of their eyelashes.

And what a great start to the day, the way Brian’s breathless with laughter when Pat can’t muster a better response than a nervous, “Did everything work out okay? For you?”

Brian sees their opening and _takes it_. “I told you, Pat, you made my dream-come true!” 

They’re afforded a long, still moment in which to waggle their eyebrows suggestively before Pat breaks it with a heartfelt laugh and tries to smack them with a pillow.


End file.
